Angels Must Exist
by kireiotakugirl
Summary: Christine could not stem the tide of her depression at the loss of her father, nor her growing disbelief when the Angel of Music never appeared to her. Once Mama Valerius passed, Miss Daae was completely alone, and it became more than she could bear. Yet it was only when she had given up all hope that He appeared, breathing life into her once more.
1. Despair

It was a curious thing, a frightening thing, this overwhelming sadness in which Christine Daae found herself. Her grief was all consuming, a thick cloak that blocked out all warmth and light. Her mother she had barely known, but for her _father_ to die...that was something for which her heart was not prepared. Gustav Daae had been her entire world. The stories he would tell, not to mention the fatherly companionship he provided, was everything to her. What she missed most, however, was the music he could coax out of his wondrous violin.

For music was where their true bond stood. During their travels Papa would play while she would dance and sing. Always he would tell her that she sang as an angel would, and she would smile and laugh, happy to be under her father's loving gaze. She never thought to ask him of the cough he had developed or the ashen hue of his cheeks, for he would always shrug it off with a smile. It was far too late before she realized he could not stay with her forever.

In truth she was far too old to believe in fairy-tales, but Gustav had always been so gentle with his daughter, encouraging her imaginative nature and fanciful habits. Though she was thirteen at the time, a young lady, she was so naive towards the world. Christine did not know what it was to be alone, not really. So it was that before his death, Gustave Daae whispered sweet promises to his daughter. The promise of the Angel of Music. Once he reached her mother's side, he'd send the Angel to her.

"Do not weep, my darling. Papa loves you so very much. You are never alone." It was the last he spoke to his daughter, the last he spoke to anyone. After that he had fallen into a deep sleep from which he never returned.

At first Christine held fast to hope. Father had promised to send his Little Lotte the Angel of Music, and her father had never lied to her before. Even as his body was lowered into the damp earth she did not despair, for he _had_ promised.

Weeks went by, then months, and eventually a whole year had passed wherein no angel had come. Father wouldn't have lied, not about something so devastatingly important. When she asked Mama Valerius, the elderly woman was quick to agree. The Angel was merely waiting. Surely that was all.

She entered the conservatory at the opera house, making her way into the chorus. For years she worked, singing and dancing as was expected of her, but she never did much to distinguish herself. After waiting for so very long, the music had left her. What point was there to music when her sweet father was gone? For Mama Valerius she worked and won a few achievements, but even her praises weren't enough to drag young Christine from her doldrums. Was she not worthy of her long awaited angel?

The years weren't kind to Mama Valerius, and it was not long before death came for her as well. She had died peacefully in her bed and was buried in the family plot beside her husband, but eighteen year old Christine was all alone. No angels came to lift the veil of sadness that had settled over her, and steadily she came to realize that angels must not exist.

After sweet Mama Valerius was lowered into the dark, damp ground, Christine knew little of hope. Day in and day out she was go to her lessons in the opera house and sing what was required of her. Other than the words of songs, nothing passed through her lips. No one really spoke to her anyways, being an unimpressive chorus singer and withdrawn since her arrival. Doubts assailed her mind. Had she been a bad daughter? Though she could not remember being cruel or petty, she must have been. Why else did everyone leave her? Why else would this angel, if it even existed at all, keep away when she needed hope so badly? Mechanically she would bathe and groom herself, but the roses had left her cheeks, and any food she tried to eat turned to ash in her mouth. Steadily she was wasting away.

When Christine Daae decided that it was high time for her to die as well, she went to the opera house's chapel. The ins and outs of suicide scared her, but it was not nearly as frightening as spending her life alone. What she could not decide on was the method. Swallowing coals like Portia was out of the question, but perhaps poison or a knife would do? It was cold calculation that settled her on a blade. Purchasing poison would be suspicious, no matter what she said it was for, but no one thought twice about blades.

In front of painted angels she knelt, praying forgiveness for what she was about to do. The small blade sat in her lap, the flickering candles that she lit for father and Mama Valerius reflecting off its edge. It was the only light in the room, for darkness had fallen. The opera house was silent as a tomb, even the ballet rats asleep in their dormitories. No one would disturb her. Still, the apathy that she wore as a cloak these past months and years began to fall away as she grasped the blade in hand, pondering where best to plunge the dagger. Her mind came alive at the idea, her hands trembling with excitement she had not felt for so long. Oh, what sweet relief it would be to die, for the pain in her heart to cease.

With grim determination she brought the blade up, holding the tip against her chest, right above her heart. Time dragged on, as did her fear. Would it hurt? If God existed, would he understand? Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she began to press in the blade.

"Stop!" cried a voice, and Christine found herself frozen in shock. A gust of wind followed the order, and the candles were extinguished, leaving her in darkness.

"Please," she whispered, her voice rough from disuse, "Who is there?"

There was no answer, no movement. Perhaps she had imagined the whole thing in her grief. She brought the knife up once more, ready to take the plunge into death's arms so her madness would end forever.

Yet no sooner had she started to push forward than the blade was jerked from her hands and flung away, clattering on the cold paving stones. Fear tore at her heart, fear that she had been discovered, and such fear of whoever had been watching and listening. Still, Christine could not force herself to move, ready to take whatever scolding the stranger would give her.

"You must cease this, Christine." The voice commanded. "Stand and live, and do not attempt this foolishness again. The world is a better place with your beauty in it."

That voice! Oh, such sounds she had never heard. The golden, brilliant voice that filled her mind, that stirred her soul had spoken of _her_ beauty, as though it could ever compare to his own. For though it was beautiful, heartrendingly so, it was most definitely a male voice. Her knees felt weak, her hands and arms trembling violently, yet it was not out of fear but awe that such perfection would speak with her. Blindly she reached out, trying to touch him with her unworthy hands, but all she grasped was the corner of his cloak. Still, he did not move to stop her, and she wept over the fabric in her hands, pressing her cheek, her lips to it reverently.

The years of doubt and loneliness seemed worth it now.

"Why are you weeping, sweet Christine?" The golden voice asked kindly, and she thought she felt him move closer though she did not dare raise her gaze.

"I have waited a lifetime for you, Angel."


	2. Hope

Thank you to those who have followed this so far. Of course it goes without saying that I do not own Phantom of the Opera. This is written for entertainment only.

Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated, and if anyone has any suggestions or requests, let me know.

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><p>To say that Erik had led an unhappy life would be putting it delicately. Tall, lean, terrifying Erik, with the voice of an angel and the form of a devil. Not that he believed in angels or demons. No, the world of fancy had long since been shattered for him. He was a man grounded in reason.<p>

Reason was what guided him as a child to flee from his mother's hatred. It was what helped him bide his time with the gypsies, learning their secrets and tricks. A sharp mind shaped his works of terror and doom in Persia, and that selfsame wit was what got him from that desert nightmare alive. His pure talent in architecture gave him the opportunity to design his own home, and his own powerful hands built the many tunnels and trapdoors in the bowels of the building, masonry being just one of many skills he'd had to hone. Yes, Erik was the master of this overgrown ant farm, and they, poor insects, did not even know it.

Erik could not believe in the fantastic, not after what he had seen and done. To believe in the superstitions of others was to believe that he himself was evil from birth, that he had been cursed while in the womb. The evil eye was upon him, or so the gypsies had bewailed, and the devil himself could not look upon his distorted face without cringing. No, he put no stock in that, nor did he have much use for others. Others were what caused the intensive scars on his back as well as his psyche. Others were not to be trusted, and they most definitely weren't worth the trouble.

Still, some things could not be accomplished alone. Opera houses could not be constructed by one set of hands, nor could the operas themselves be performed by one voice, no matter how talented. One had need of others to do the petty and the mundane, to stitch his fine clothes, forge metal for his home, and dip the wax for the many candles he required. He dealt with them indirectly, through notes and messengers, never showing his face to anyone. Even Madame Giry, his one steadfast connection in the opera house, did not make direct contact with him, and that was just how he desire it.

In his subterranean home he would toil and rage over his music, the only constant companion in his isolation. Its swirling themes and thrilling counter-melodies, the deep haunting baselines that seemed to vibrate in his chest, and most of all the vocals! Oh, to put to words the song of his sorrow, to express the ever burgeoning depth of his despair with the seductive beauty of music seemed to be the reason for his existence. For days and night he would stay awake, scribbling frantically on paper the notes he felt inside until his long fingers ceased to function and his forearm (for he was left handed, another supposed sign of his evil nature) was covered in ink. Composing until there was nothing left to feel, he would then retire to his coffin bed and dream despite himself.

Music, reason, and his beloved darkness. It was all he wanted to know, everything else an annoyance. Sure there was the occasional distraction, the deliciously sweet song of morphine, the ever useful tools of illusion and ventriloquism, and the ever seductive call for bloodshed now and then, but music...that was what gave him purpose, what kept him from being a mindless addict or an insatiable murderer.

Yes, it was all he needed, until he met Christine.

Sweet, lovely, sad Christine! Such a beautiful girl when she first was led into his opera house, but so very melancholy. The other young girls being ushered through its doors were much more outgoing, more ambitious and displaying much more talent at first glance, and his poor Christine stuck out like a sore thumb. Dressed in somber colors to symbolize her mourning, she did not speak to many, keeping to her lessons and little else.

At first he tried to ignore the young girl. She was so very young, surely no older than thirteen, and the idea crossed his mind that it was inappropriate for him to watch over her like a vulture in the rafters. Easier said than done, for he saw in her eyes the mirror image of his own loneliness, and it was heartbreaking enough that he fled to the darkest depths of his dungeons to rage in his music and answer the siren call of the needle. For days he dwelt in the euphoric glow of the morphine, warm and numb and weightless, and he did not think of the girl with chocolate curls and sad blue eyes.

Eventually, however, he came down from his high, and as he lay leaden against the organ, his mind went back to her. Not as a man looks at a woman, no, for he was not a monster to lust after such a young girl, but he did feel ashamed all the same. Erik felt so very ashamed, for his thoughts dwelt on someone so pure and sweet, and those thoughts weren't always honorable. Sure, he had this strange desire to protect her, to keep that sad look out of her eyes, for he was sure that she would look lovely in a smile, and yet there was another, darker part of him that wanted to see what she'd do when all the light was snuffed from her life. Would she rise from the ashes of her life or hurl herself into the pit? He felt such a connection with her, that they were kindred spirits in their misery, and the old familiar ache for companionship clenched in his chest once more. It didn't matter. She would never know of him. It was better for them both.

As she grew older, however, Erik saw how hard it was to stay away. The attributes that had made her so striking for him were still there, but there was something else as well. He noted the slump in her shoulders that increased with the years, as though her one shining hope was fading. _Danger_, the word flashed when he looked at her, but of course that was ridiculous. She was barely one hundred pounds soaking wet, what danger could she hold? Despite her increased lassitude, she grew more and more lovely, her body becoming curved and womanly. Only her voice kept her back. At times Erik would ponder how he might shape it into a masterpiece to rival heaven, but the thoughts were always stomped down. He would not approach her, not yet.

Eventually five years had passed, and Erik felt that he'd made quite the fool of himself. Down in the dark of his home he'd finished a room for Christine replete with furniture, clothes and other sundries. He had written arias for her, even if she did sound like a "rusted hinge" to those in the opera house; Erik knew promise when he heard it. The potential in her had yet to be unlocked, but he thought he could do so, if the right moment ever presented itself.

As if that weren't enough to prove his pitiable and strange devotion, he had started leaving little gifts where she would find them, trinkets, paper flowers, sketches, little novelties that made a ghostly smile appear on her face. Erik found he lived for those moments, hiding in the walls and waiting for her face to light up like the sun before the cloud of sadness drifted across it once more. Maybe he was what the little ballet rats whispered, a monster, for surely he acted as one to watch her so, but he could not stop. Ensnarement, that was the danger she possessed, and she had properly snared his monstrous self without being aware of it.

In the span of those years, Erik had observed her faltering faith, and that, perhaps more than her sorrow, was so very compelling to him. He knew that struggle to understand God's silence, and if she could shrug off the shackles of faith, how liberated she would feel afterwards. She visited the chapel every few days, lighting a candle for her father and whispering soft prayers in her sweet, cherubic voice. He tried not to listen, but Erik found it impossible to resist.

An Angel of Music? She plead with her father to send him quickly, that Mama Valerius was dying, and she could not stand the thought of being alone. At first she would weep when she said it, but her frequent visits made it easier, until finally she stopped asking altogether.

For a week he did not see her at all, and then she was back, pale faced and clothed in black once more. Her Mama Valerius had passed, and with it went the little light of her hope. Erik found he did not like seeing her without it as much as he thought he would, and he made plans to make his presence known the next time she visited the chapel. He did not think it would take her so long to get back there, nor that she would try to kill herself.

His sweet little innocent entered the chapel, pale as a sheet in the small light she carried. With poise and acceptance she lit candles for her father and her Mama Valerius and knelt before the altar, whispering prayers for forgiveness. She seemed calm until she took the dagger in hand and held it to her breast; her hands shook so violently after that. He thought she would not do it, but she started pushing the dagger forward. The strangest smile lit her face, and it made his stomach churn to see it. She would not do this.

"Stop!" he called out, opening a trapdoor and causing gusts of wind to extinguish the lights. His Christine glanced around, calling out and looking mad in that moment before bringing the dagger back up to her trembling breast.

Without a sound Erik came forward, confident that she could not see him in the dark chapel, and just as she brought the knife down again, intent on her mission, he seized it, tossing it carelessly away from them both. She blinked and stared blindly, but he saw the wonderment in her eyes. Uncertainty gripped him for but a moment, and then he spoke.

"You must cease this, Christine." Erik sternly said. "Stand and live, and do not attempt this foolishness again. The world is a better place with your beauty in it."

Christine did not speak, but he witnessed a strange and beautiful transformation flicker across her features. She was _grateful_, Erik saw it, but he had trouble believing it. Never had anyone made that face after something he had done. Of course, it was dark, and he knew the beauty of his own voice. It was the one redeeming quality of his deathly form, the one attribute he possessed that could inspire something other than fear. So yes, he reasoned, she was distracted by his words. Surely that would be the end of it.

Except that it wasn't the end at all. She reach out blindly, clutching at thin air before her hands finally landed on his cloak. Erik fought the urge to jerk the fabric free of her hands and instead watched in mild horror as she wept, kissing the hem of his garment like he was Christ performing miracles. He had to say something, anything to get her to stop her strange worship. Her sobs continued on until he could stand it no more.

"Why do you weep, sweet Christine?" Against his better judgement he moved forward, his hand very close to touching her. The first human contact he would have had in so long...

"It is only that I have waited a lifetime for you, Angel." She whispered softly, and his hand stilled its movement. He did not answer, did not move, did not breathe. Something in his mind screamed at him to stop being such a fool(after all, she was half-mad with grief), but a greater bit was rejoicing, urging him forward.

He must have taken a dreadfully long while, for Christine tugged on his cloak and spoke to him again.

"Angel?" she murmured, "Please...h-have you nothing to say?"

"What would you have me say, Christine?" He could have kicked himself for responding, but hadn't he wanted to speak with her for years? Never mind she thought him an angel, she asked for his words, and that was enough for now. Her renewed sobs, on the other hand, had to stop. "Christine?"

"Say anything that pleases you, _mon ange_, only stay." Her face was buried in his cloak, and she had begun to shake in earnest. Nearly kicking himself for what he was about to do, Erik reached out, touching her shoulder.

"Christine, Christine." His voice was a psalm, her name so sweet on his lips, and her tears slowed. Softly he sang a tune, a winding melody that he had penned, and her trembling stopped, shoulders sagging in relief.

For a long time he sang, his golden voice filling the dark room with warmth and beauty, and at last Christine's grip on his cloak loosened. When finally his song ended, she looked up at him in what he thought was wonder. Such a strange reaction, when surely she should have been afraid of his strange eyes. Instead her own were round and bright, her lips curved into a sweet smile as she studied his eyes.

"_Ange_, do you have a name?" she murmured in a daze.

Strange. So very strange that he should be asked for his name. It had been nearly ten years since anyone had asked for his name, and he certainly never volunteered the information. Naming something gave one dominion over it, and Erik was not one to be controlled. Still, could he ever refuse her, the woman he had loved from afar for years? No matter that she thought him an angel, if only she kept speaking to him.

"Erik." He answered, and he was quite proud that his voice did not shake. He saw her smile at the information.

"Erik." she repeated fondly, and that's when he knew for certain. Such a sweet, terrible, terminal ache in his monstrous chest.

Erik was lost.


	3. Comfort

Her angel! It was her fondest dream to be in the same room as her Angel of Music. The darkness didn't matter, not when she could see his golden eyes flash like soft candlelight. The chill of his touch was no concern, not when she could hear the music of Heaven. Surely that's what it must be, for it was far too beautiful a melody to be of worldly origin.

Once calmed, Christine was shocked at her own audacity, clenching to his clothes like a beggar, but surely she felt no better than one, pleading with him so passionately just for a word or two. To add to her dismay, she realized that her Angel did not wear the gleaming white garb said to be their norm. She could not see much, but she could tell his clothes were all black. His hand was gloved, and though the touch was so brief it could have been imagined, she could tell that a chill lingered in his long, dexterous fingers.

"Erik." He had said in his golden voice. "Erik." She had replied, feeling so very unworthy, but he must have seen worth in her to stay her hand.

Why now? Why, after such time that had passed since beloved Papa Daae left her, had it taken so long for him to come? The question would not leave her mind, though she warred with the idea, struggled so hard to be a good, thankful woman. It was not polite to question such a gift.

To the Devil with that, she thought despite herself.

"Angel," she asked, "What happens now?" Gently her Angel helped her to stand, and she couldn't help the thrill that filled her to be touched by him, no matter how innocently. She supposed it must have been his larger than life presence, swathed in darkness and eyes burning with holy fire, that made her feel as though that self-same fire consumed her very soul. Oh, how she wanted it to!

"You will return to your dormitory, sweet Christine. You will begin again with your studies, and I will be here when you require my comfort." She said no more, feeling shame burn her cheeks for presuming to ask anything of him, though it seemed to her that Erik did not mind.

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><p>He had touched her. Touched <em>her<em>, his hands trembled even now. Yes, it was through thin leather gloves that he'd done so, but Erik had experienced her heat all the same. Their hands were clasped as Erik led her to the dormitory, silently gliding through corridors and weaving through the rows of beds. He was thankful for the lack of moonlight, since her bed was just by the window, and yet he regretted that his Christine was so shaken by the darkness.

He knew she was frightened of darkness. It was healthy to have trepidation for that which one cannot see. With calming breaths he reminded himself that she likely clung to his arm for that reason, but it did nothing to cool his ardor when he felt the swell of her breasts press against him. It did not help that she spent most of the time sneaking what she thought were very stealthy glances towards him, her eyes obviously widening with each stolen look. As they passed a candle that was nearly out (and why was the thing burning anyways? He'd have to discuss this with the managers, for it wouldn't do if the opera house were to burn to the ground over something so easily prevented), Erik knew she must have caught a glimpse of the mask, yet she did not pull away. Christine did quite the opposite, in fact, clinging tighter to his arm, pressing her heart-shaped face against his wiry bicep. Even so, he knew she burned with curiosity about it, and briefly he questioned the wisdom of revealing himself.

All thoughts of anything other than all consuming, nerve-rending desire left him when he felt her tilt her nose against his sleeve, breathing in his scent in what she must have thought was an inconspicuous manner. Erik found himself so shocked that he nearly tripped over his own feet, and only saved himself embarrassment by draping his arm around her under the pretense of covering her in his cloak.

"I-...thank you, _ange_. I don't deserve such kindness." Erik was convinced that she would start weeping again, as awed as she sounded, so he made quick work of comforting her, whispering that she was worthy of so much more, and that she'd surely have it. It disturbed him to realize that the petite girl under his arm (_his_ unworthy arm) could likely ask him anything, and he'd jump to make it a reality.

When finally the two arrived at the dormitories, Erik fought to remove himself from her, though her thin fingers clung to his cloak adamantly. Her large blue eyes stared up at him in the near darkness, her lips curved into a radiant smile that made him want to weep. Tears shimmered in her eyes, tears of joy, and Erik cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking away from her.

"I must take my leave, sweet Christine. You've had a trying night and need your rest." He meant to leave, feeling unable to stay composed in her presence much longer, but when he turned to leave, her hands jerked on his cloak, her eyes begging .

"Will you return, my Erik?" she whispered, "Please, please...what if I awaken, and this has all been a strange dream? A cruel trick? I couldn't bear it, _ange_." She crept closer, bold in her fear, her eyes seeking him out in the dim corridor. Erik could see the panic forming and knew that if she did not calm herself, she would wake half the theatre, so he took her hands in his, squeezing them reassuringly as he'd seen others do, and then on a wild impulse, his wretched heart pounding with enough force to crack his ribs, he leaned down and kissed her open palms, his thick, misshapen lips absorbing the silken texture of her skin. If Hell existed, he knew he was damning himself there, taking such liberties with an angel of God, but how could he regret it when she sighed in return, her fingers moving to touch the same lips that had just defiled them. He took a shaky, steadying breath.

"Meet me tomorrow night in the chapel, after the others have gone to sleep. I'll be waiting, and you'll know that this is no dream, dear girl." Erik nodded towards the door, "Now, go to your rest. There will be time tomorrow to speak."


	4. Waking

**To everyone who has started reading this, welcome! And thank you! I appreciate the kind words from my reviewers, and I hope to be able to post more frequently in the future! Let me know what you think!**

_It was unlike any dream she had ever experienced in that, while it was so obviously a fiction, it felt more real than almost anything she had experienced since her poor father's death. She was singing on stage, her voice pure and beautiful, molded to a perfection that she knew it would never realistically attain. Out into the audience she stared, euphoria gracing her face even as she saw that no one was actually seated there. It was an empty hall, but she felt eyes upon her. Eyes that knew the depths of her very soul, each sin and every good work, all her fears and desires. Those eyes scrutinized, it's true, but they also seemed to envelope and comfort her, forcing a surge of confidence through her. The last of the notes rang from her vocal chords, shaped and softened, projected out into the great gilded room. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as though she had run a great distance, and even though no applause came to her ears, she knew the watcher approved. _

_ "Christine, sweet Christine." the golden voice called beseechingly, and Christine's eyes slid closed as the floor slipped out from underneath her feet. She wasn't afraid, for she was being called home._

_ Falling, falling, never seeming to find an the many levels of the opera house she flew, her elaborate costume slipping off piece by piece until she scarcely wore a stitch. The way down was dark and cool and seemingly never ending, but she was not afraid. No, she couldn't be afraid when the voice called to her so sweetly. As the voice grew louder, closer, Christine opened her eyes, peering down, looking for the one who spoke so warmly. _

_ He stood at the bottom of this seemingly endless drop, golden and glorious in knee deep water, dark head peering down at his hands. The gloves were gone, and she hungrily gazed at the hands of her savior, only to find that they might just as well have belonged to a skeleton. Devastatingly thin, pale, with unusually long fingers. _

_ In her dream she accepted them, longed for them, for those hands had saved her. The floor was rising up to meet her alarmingly fast, however, and she called for him, calling out "Erik" in a panic, arms outstretched in a vain attempt to cushion her fall. Hitting the ground at this speed would surely be fatal. At the sound of her cries he looked up, raising his skeletal hands up to catch her, and Christine looked upon the face of death. There were no screams, no cries for mercy. Her arms wrapped around his neck when, impossibly, he caught her. She was smiling,breathless and giddy with relief, staring up lovingly at golden eyes that seemed to exist for her alone. A small hand eased up and touched his desiccated skin, paper thin and ghostly pale, a thumb passing over bloated, misshapen lips, and her angel lowered his face to hers, a second away from a kiss._

_ "Welcome home, my Christine."_

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><p>Christine lay on her meager bed, the weak light of pre-dawn drifting through the high windows. Her heart pounded in her chest, hands clenching the thin coverlet before she sat up, hugging her knees and hiding her face. The first thoughts that went through her mind were of her <em>ange<em>, Erik. Was he real, or had her mind finally snapped, creating a fiction that she had long desired?

She rose quickly and quietly, careful not to disturb the other occupants of the room as she dressed for the day. The managers gave the performers Sunday off, and she knew that most of them liked to sleep in as late as possible. The halls were empty as she made her way to the chapel, and though it was still darker than she'd have liked, she continued on without trepidation for what could be lurking in the shadows.

Once the chapel came into view, Christine was struck by the fear of her actions of the previous night. Quickly she marched over and lit a candle, offering up a quick prayer of thanks and forgiveness, all the while staring longingly at the daguerreotype of her father. Surely Erik was sent by him, by her father as promised. Why else would he have saved her? As she knelt in contemplation, images from her dream assailed her. What was an angel of music, anyways? Why would he wear such earthly clothing, the tuxedo and cloak, instead of his holy vestments? Were the great artists and visionaries of the world wrong? Typically creatures in such dark raiment were denizens of evil and death.

Death. Was he the Angel of Death,then? The thought frightened her, tears dripping down her cheeks, but she pushed such imaginings away quickly. If she thought such things of her angel, he might not visit again. No, she thought as she sat straighter, she'd do anything to keep him from leaving.

Now if only she could find some way to occupy her mind until night came and they were face to face once more. She had to have some assurance that she hadn't completely gone mad.

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><p>Once he had arrived back in his lair, Erik felt the warmth of Christine's presence pass away like a fading dream. What had possessed him to help her? The girl was obviously troubled, to still believe such childish things as her own personal heavenly being, and to attempt suicide because such a being would not appear? Still, the wonder in her eyes at his sudden appearance had been extremely gratifying. For someone to express an emotion other than fear in front of him? It was virtually unheard of. She'd even touched him of her own accord, her petite hands gripping his arm as if she'd disappear without it.<p>

He shuddered to think of his unworthy hands touching her, even though the gloves. They were undeniably ugly, very long and skeletal, the skin deathly pale, and the cold always managed to seep into them. His hands were one thing, but to have touched her with his lips, disgusting, misshapen things that they were...he felt faint at the memory. Her skin was fragrant and soft, softer than he dared imagine. At any moment he thought she would flee, had expected it even, and he could not bear to make eye contact with her after such a foul transgression as touch her with his bare skin. It surprised him greatly when her fingers had dared to touch his wretched mouth in return. His chest clenched horribly at the memory, his hands shaking as he brought his accursed digits up to touch his lips. His tongue flicked out to moisten the dry skin, and with shame he imagined the taste of her on them.

With a groan he could not repress, Erik paced around his lair in a vain attempt to get the troubled girl off his mind. How the morphine called to him, the sweet bite of the needle, the endless drifting of numbing painlessness...but no, not yet. He lost time during these sessions of desperate self-indulgence, and he promised he would be waiting on her. He had to compose himself, and he knew sleep would be impossible, so he began attacking the great pipe organ like it had insulted him, coercing notes from the pedals and keys, pouring all his frustrations into soars strains of music. The melodies echoed off the cavernous walls, moaning out his shame and confessing his self-disgust while at the same time praising that which was most good in his life.

Christine! Sweet, sad Christine. His graceful hands taught the organ of her beauty, her bottomless blue eyes and chocolate curls, her creamy skin and delicate features. The instrument bewailed her melancholy, cried for her as surely as Erik himself wanted to. He touched on her darkness, a troubled darkness that he alone had witnessed. Yet by the end of his rampage he played for the hope she instilled in him, the wild, insane hope that she could-but no. Finally he wept as he drew the chords to a close, deep and broken sobs for the vain, blind hope that she could look past his hideous body. Could she break through his desiccated shell and find something worthy of her smile, her touch and affection? An angel of mercy to deliver him from his loneliness.

If only she did not think him to be a celestial being himself. Erik sat, wiping the tears and sweat from his face, and he stared at the mask at his side, his heart and mind heavy. An angel? Him? How did she live such a long time on this Earth without learning the unfortunate truth? Other than her blessed self, angels don't exist.


End file.
